


Psalm 119:25

by seventeensteps



Series: Verses [1]
Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Possibilities, this is messed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7255777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventeensteps/pseuds/seventeensteps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gasps, eyes wide, Betsy’s hovering over him, shaking him, she looks worried, thin brows tightening, she’s talking, saying something, but he can barely hear it, several high pitch voices and laughter loud and bearing down on him, <em>whee, whee, whee.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Psalm 119:25

**Author's Note:**

> three things you need to know:  
> 1\. It sets after ep3 and I haven't watched ep4 when I wrote this.  
> 2\. I really like Donnie.  
> 3\. I'm very, very sorry.

 

_"I am laid low in the dust; preserve my life according to your word."_

_**P**_ _**salm 119:25** _

 

“It’s bunny man!”

“Squeal like a bunny!”

“Wheeeeeeeeee!”

“Yeah! Come on! Make the noise!”

“Come on! Squeal like a bunny!”

“Whee, whee, whee!”

“Whee, whee, whee!”

“Whee, whee, whee!”

“WHEE, WHEE, WHEE!-”

_“Donnie!”_

He gasps, eyes wide, Betsy’s hovering over him, shaking him, she looks worried, thin brows tightening, she’s talking, saying something, but he can barely hear it, several high pitch voices and laughter loud and bearing down on him, _whee, whee, whee_.

Through the ringing in his ears, He can vaguely hear her say something like, “no” and “Lord” and “hospital”. He sees her start to sob when he doesn’t response quick enough, and, in her panic, whipping around for the phone on the bedside table.

He snatches her arm, maybe a bit too hard, desperately trying to catch his breath and saying “no” at the same time, and failing.

“N-” he wheezes, choking for air, fighting to take little gulps in through the closed passage.

“Oh Lord,” she whimpers, but that seems to pause the flurry of her actions. “Oh, Donnie, _Donnie_ ,” she half-sobs, “ _what_ _happened_?”

Donnie tries, strains for a breathe, another, deeper, and feels the back of his throat closing up again when the noises sound in his ears again. His ears are hot, eyes stinging, he doesn’t want to explain anything, and he knows she actually knows the answer to her own question already. She just doesn’t want to admit it. That her husband was bullied by a bunch of _10-year-olds_.

He can feel his throat burning. Embarrassment and humiliation lick through him sharply from the tips of his ears to the points of his toes. Scald him worse than any broken bones inside his arm. “No,” he croaks out. “Don’t call, just- don’t.”

Betsy’s wide brown eyes are searing holes into the side of his head, but he refuses to look at her. This is not the first time he’s woken up in the middle of the night. He doesn’t want to know how she woke up this time. Doesn’t need that.

He moves to get out of the bed, and realizes he hasn’t let go of her arm until now. She is very still, and he still tells himself to keep his eyes downward. He removes his grip from her, and forces himself _not_ to run to the bathroom.

He slams the door shut, and locks it with shaking fingers, biting his lip so hard to keep the beginning of the overwhelming emotion inside, yet it continues to bubble up and up and up, pushing and forcing its way out, until he just can’t, can’t bottle it in anymore.

 

Donnie slides to the floor, and presses a hand over his mouth.

 

 

 

 

Sense of humiliation washes through him every day, over and over and over, and no matter what he does, or where he is, or how many pieces of trash he beats to pulp, the burning sensation is always brought up and shoved into his face. Of course, he doesn't let the adults who dare say it in front of him walk away scot-free. He yells. He barks. He fucking _bites_. But it’s different now. People used to be scared of him, shut up and cower, but now they just keep on talking, and talking, and talking like if they stop it’d be the end of the world.

Still, some of the grown-ups, that he can _deal_ with. What really gets to him is the kids.

He tells them to stop. He just needs them to _stop_.

They never do.

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t know how he did it. That’s what scary about all of it. He just said the words, and then Donnie weren’t the master of his _own_ body anymore. It moved according to what he said, and Donnie doesn’t know why, or how. Whenever he thinks about it, about how he couldn’t control his own body _at all_ , how he briefly – and it didn't feel that way; every second felt like fucking _forever,_ fear bleeding from one to the other – lost all abilities to command his own limbs, whenever he thinks of that, or is forced to relieve those dreading seconds, his hands start shaking, air escaping him, and the world starts to fade away.

 

 

 

 

He barely goes out for a drink anymore. But sometimes he has to, because staying home with Betsy, seeing the way she looks at him now makes him feel even worse.

Before, when he was outside in the world, Donnie told people what to do, and they would do as he said. But at home, inside the safe insulation of the walls, whatever his wife wanted, he indulge, or tried as hard as he could, and it was not fear that made him yield to her demand. It was love. He loved her, _loves_ her. Wicked, dark, beautiful thing, love.

And it wasn't like he didn't want to. It pleased her, made her feel alive, she told him, and he couldn't judge her.

So he hit her because she liked it, slapped her because she liked it, beat her because she liked it, and it broke his heart into tiny million bloodied pieces. He striked her with his belt and his slightly shaking hands and it felt like he was breaking something _dear._ Then, he stood there, the broken pieces piercing him, and bled his warmth out onto the bedroom floor.

It sounds fucked up, he knows. It felt that way, too.

It ripped him to shreds. To be the one who put those marks on her. But after, when she smiled up at him, and kissed him, he closed his eyes and his mind went blank.

They have a safe word. She never uses it. Neither does he.

 

But Donnie can't do that anymore.

 

 

 

 

He's been nursing his first glass of scotch for the past half hour when Jesse walks in. Donnie inadvertently flinches, mind reeling, heart in his throat. His eyes don't linger on the dark unruly hair or the black preacher attire. He is alone, not with that lanky Irish. Donnie is grateful he isn't holding the glass in his hands, because it would clank loudly when he sets it on the countertop otherwise. His hands are trembling so bad. Breathing too loud in his ears he's unreasonably afraid that the man would suddenly hear it. He makes his way to the bathroom, and washes his face. He looks like shit. Weak. No wonder people are not afraid of him anymore. His fingers are gripping the edge of the sink so hard the knuckles go white.

Donnie tells himself to calm down. Custer hasn't been the one who came to find him two times before. It was him. Donnie would laugh, but it's not funny, not at all, so he doesn't.

He splashes some water onto his face again, and when he looks up at the mirror this time, the preacher is standing in the doorway, blocking the only exit. A weird, terrifying sense of déjà vu hits him, making the hair on his neck stands on end. His mind replays the scene in the bathroom of the gas station, despite his lack of consent, and he can faintly feel the start of a panic bubbling up.

It's almost the same, only the positions are reversed. He stands up fully, tries to walks around the man to get out, get away, carefully not looking into his eyes in the vain hope that it will help him somehow, but Custer shifts, and moves in front of him. He closes the bathroom door.

He senses that he really starts to shake now. The preacher is shorter than him, but Donnie feels like he's being towered over. He doesn't know what to do, his throat is closing up again, the edges of his vision going gray, and Jesse still hasn't said anything.

That is the worst of it all.

Donnie is afraid, fears, clinging to the last illusion of control before it gets taken away.

Minutes stretch into hours and years and eons, and Donnie thinks his knees are wobbling and he's going to maybe pass out, but he wills himself to stay upright. He seizes the sink for assistance and doesn’t care that the man notices it or not. He can _not_ take anymore humiliation from this man.

"I'm sorry," Jesse Custer finally says, and Donnie is both relieved and terrified.

He doesn't know what to think, or believe. His stomach begins to unclench, but his heart is still going as fast as a jackrabbit. "I, uh, I'll- I'll go." He tries to move in the direction of the door again, but Custer presses closer, _too_ close.

"Don't," he says, and Donnie momentarily freezes, before realizing that he can, in fact, move, if he wants to.

"What do you want?" He spits the words out, feeling powerless under this man's scrutiny, dark eyes the bottomless pool of authority.

"I just," he licks his bottom lips, "I'm sorry."

Donnie brain short-circuits a bit trying to match those words with the man standing in front of him. If he hadn't been looking at the preacher's mouth, he wouldn't have believed it really happened.

But Donnie doesn't know Custer well enough – or _at all_ – not to doubt the sincerity of the words. And from the looks of it, the man sees it as well.

"I just want to tell you that." He pushes himself away, and suddenly Donnie feels too light, like he's going to just float away. "I'm not going to do it anymore, as long as you refrain from attacking me again."

Donnie can only shakes his head.

And then Jesse Custer is gone.

 

 

 

 

Donnie discovers, two weeks after the confrontation in the bathroom, two weeks where nothing happened, that he's not really- no, the thought of the preacher still scares him. It's just that, thinking about him doesn't make his skin burn any longer.

Well, that's- not completely true. It _does_ , but due to a whole different reason.

And he doesn't, really doesn’t want to acknowledge it.

It's embarrassing. He can't do the act with Betsy, not anymore. He can't pretend to be the one in control. Betsy approached him a couple of times, but, despite the fact that he could do it, Betsy didn't enjoy it, and he didn't either.

Donnie’s life is one big fucking mess.

 

 

 

He still sits for the sermon with his family every Sunday. Donnie is not a religious person; he beats people up for a living, he used to hit his own wife regularly, but not completely abandoning the Lord gives him some false hope that if he decides to repent, there will be a place saved for him up there when the time comes.

But sitting there in the eighth row, having to listen to that _voice_ , Donnie’s not sure whether it’s for better or for worse. For the past few weeks, he’s really been trying to suppress this… urge. It’s… frustrating, at best. There were times, when he almost went to him, seeking the man out again, and just let him take the rein.

But he _can't._

However, he can’t go on like this either. This, whatever _this_ is, affects his mood. He’s more cranky than usual, snaps easily than usual. It’s killing him, and, guts twisting with both apprehension and anticipation, he just wants to find out, gets it done and over with.

He has a feeling that the preacher won’t tell on him. And no one ever mentions the incident at the gas station to him, although that doesn’t mean nobody knows about it, but with a small town like this, shits like that almost always spread like wildfire.

So that afternoon, he waits, waits until the last person gets out of the confessional, out of the church – he already told Betsy and Chris to go ahead; they looked worried, but relented, and  went home without saying anything – before he steps into the booth, and closes the door behind him. He rarely comes in here, even as a child, so even though he remembers parts of the wooden interior, it isn’t familiar. Donnie looks at the only chair in the small, enclosed space, but doesn’t sit down. His eyes travel up, and he can see the vague shadow of a man on the other side of the screen.

Silence fills the box to the brim.

The lack of action is making him even more nervous. Donnie has to do _something_ , and, before he thinks better of this and runs away, those words burn his tongue and tumble out, breaking the heavy silence, short and sharp, “Tell me what to do.”

His heart thunders inside his chest, and all that touches him inside that confessional is the suffocating stillness of the air.

His face burns hot, and he has to get out of here, and away, before the weight of what happened really registers with him. He pushes the door open, and is halfway out of that thing, when the quiet preacher speaks up.

“Stop,” he says, and the power behind that one word all but makes Donnie whimper. He’ll remember that voice anywhere; it was branded into his brain. “Move the chair outside.”

He does.

“Come back in.”

He does.

“Close the door.”

He does.

“Kneel.”

And he does.

Donnie’s knees hit the floorboard before his brain catches up with them, and then he realizes that – kneeling there in the confessional, heady with that voice, grating on his skin, its owner invisible to him – he can, actually, move.

Donnie stays that way, hard wooden floor creaking when he shifts minutely.

A second lasts a century, but finally, the man questions, “What do you want, Donnie?”

He inhales sharply. “Tell me.”

A quiet exhale sounds from the other side of the box, and, with his voice velvet deep, Jesse says, “Touch yourself.”

A spark shoots through him, and Donnie isn’t fast enough to suppress his low, quiet groan. His hand moves slowly, edging downward and closer, to press against the semi-hardness in his pant. He squeezes his eyes shut, cheeks hot with embarrassment and something _else_.

“Tell me how you feel,” Jesse orders, and he doesn’t sound affected at all.

Fuck. “It’s, ah,” he gasps, rubbing himself through layers of clothing, “ _good_.”

“Good,” Jesse says, and that isn’t a question.

His right arm twitches when he tries to shove his unoccupied hand into his mouth to block his noise, but can’t move it that much. A stray moan falls out but Donnie cuts it short.

“Let it out,” Jesse tells him. “Pleasure yourself. Let me hear your voice.”

Donnie jerks himself off quietly. He isn’t loud. It’s not how he is. He pants, and grunts, and feels a bit light-headed. He can’t believe this is happening, that he’s doing this, stroking his cock in the middle of the confessional booth, hungry for another command.

It’s intoxicating, and Donnie hates that he likes it so much.

His hand speeds up, and all through it, Jesse occasionally says something like, “good” and “faster” – and “stop” every time Donnie’s breathing starts to come out short and shallow.

After so many buildups and no release, Donnie keens, looking down at the red, spit-slicked head, and wanting so much to just _come_. He’s become a shaking, whimpering mess. His wrist is tired. “Please,” he bites out, sensing the building pressure low in his groin _again_ , “ _please_.”

There is a pause, but then, “All right, Donnie,” the preacher finally says, “let go.”

And just like that, it’s the most mind-numbing orgasm of his life. He keeps coming, several stripes of thick, white liquid splashed across the floorboard, and feels like he’s floating so high he wouldn’t be able to find his way back down.

Minutes pass, and Donnie can’t think straight with the loud _thud thud thud_ of his heart in his ears. Now that it’s done, Donnie doesn’t know what to do. He tugs himself into his pants and zips up, suddenly self-conscious. He then takes a look at the drying come on the floor, and haphazardly wipes it off with a couple pieces of receipt he found in one of his pockets.

The other side of the booth is completely quiet now, but he knows the other man is still in there. Donnie gets up, his knees protesting, and for a moment, stands there like he’s waiting for something.

Nothing happens. He doesn’t know what to expect, or what he really wants, for that matter.

Dark, ugly thing inside of him threatens to spill over, but Donnie bottles it up. He can break later, but not here, and not like this.

He walks out of the church, looking up at the sky, deep purple and indifferent.

Time to go back to Betsy.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (thank you so much for even reading it)


End file.
